Wrathion’s heart ached with grief and flamed with fury.
Splotches of deep crimson soaked into the golden sand as those who bled slipped into timelessness. Everything was timeless here in the Caverns; and it was what the Caverns sheltered that the fallen dragons of Azeroth had died to defend.
Wrathion, Earth-Warder, Aspect of the black dragonflight, turned sand to glass with the magma he breathed. His loyal flight, a dancing wave of gleaming ebony scales, followed him, weaving between the swirling pillars of sand to fight back against the tide of infinite darkness.
All were as free as he was from the madness that had cursed the first Aspect of Earth. Neltharion—otherwise known as Deathwing—was gone forever. He lived solely as a distant memory, his only ability to harm in the recollection of his wicked deeds.
Wrathion led the black dragonflight now, battling to protect Azeroth alongside the four other flights: blue, green, red, and bronze. They were united in purpose at long last.
Then it came, as it always did. The shadow, falling upon them.
Upon him.
No. I must not look up.
But no sooner did he think it than he began to twist and shriek. Metal plating spread over him, containing him as he contorted into a form less of solid flesh than of liquid fire.
When the horrifying transformation was complete, the monster he had become, fueled by hatred and rage, opened its massive iron jaws.
“There is no Wrathion!” the thing of metal and magma cried. The voice was dreadful, heart-stopping, and . . . familiar.
“There is only I, Deathwing—now and always,” Wrathion found himself hissing.
But it was not his mouth. He watched, helpless, as the Aspects swooped to attack him, as the black dragons doubled back to blast him, their old enemy made anew . . .
All they saw was Deathwing.
All Wrathion saw were the blazing streams of dragon fire hurtling toward him. All he heard was his own voice bellowing: “You are my legacy. You shall never escape my shadow.”
Fire, filling his vision, the heat, the brightness—
“I’ll never be you!”
Wrathion bolted upright, his throat raw from the shout. It took him a long moment to realize he was not in the timeways, under attack by his own kind. He was safe in a comfortable bed at the Summer’s Rest inn in Pandaria.
He reoriented himself, taking slow, deep breaths, and focused on his surroundings. He noted the maps affixed to the walls. The chairs draped with crusty, mud-stained garb. The lacquered table obscured by empty bottles and sheaves of notes from his travels. Among the detritus sat a scroll, neatly rolled and stamped with not one but two wax seals.
There was a soft knock on the door. Wrathion quickly composed himself, shrugging into an embroidered robe, then running his fingers through his thick shock of black hair. No doubt the pandaren at the door had heard his nightmare-spurred shout, but he would be damned if he ever admitted to it.
“Come in.” His voice had its usually silky timbre.
Mifan entered, bearing a tray heaped with local delicacies. They both pretended nothing, nothing at all, had happened as she cleared a place on the cluttered table and set down the laden tray. The raw terror of the dream still lingered, but Wrathion’s stomach growled as he surveyed the rice cakes, tea, and buns. Food was good. Grounding, even.
“May I bring you anything else?”
Wrathion forced a smile. “No. That will be all,” he said, then added, “Actually, Mifan . . . might you bring by my lunch later? I think I shall stay in and be a lazy layabout for a change.” He pretended not to notice Mifan’s eyes darting to all the empty wine bottles.
“I am honored to serve such an esteemed guest. If you wish for anything else—”
“Yes, yes, ring the bell, I know. Thank you.” He waved his hand in a shooing gesture, and Mifan, not intimidated in the least, bowed and closed the door behind her.
Wrathion let out a sigh, then selected a rice cake, pointedly ignoring the scroll’s silent condemnation. As he ate, the remaining shreds of the recurring dream dispersed, but questions remained: Could he avoid following in Deathwing’s dark footsteps? Shake the shadow? Or was it possible that Wrathion would one day succumb to that shadow?
A dull ache in his chest pulled him from his uneasy thoughts. It was constant, this melancholy that had been plaguing him of late.
For years, Wrathion had been researching the mysterious place known as the Dragon Isles. It was no legend, though it very well might have been. The famous Wandering Isle of Pandaria had nothing on these isles when it came to elusiveness.
Wrathion had sought intel . . . to no avail. The things he had done, the places he had gone, the deals he had made . . . So much effort for so few answers. Most of the people he interrogated knew nothing, and many of those who did know something appeared to be disinclined to reveal more than a few bits and bobs of highly useless information.
Vexing.
Speaking of vexing . . . His gaze fell upon the scroll once more.
It sat there, taunting him. With a growl, he snatched it up and unfurled it.
FIRST ARCANIST THALYSSRA AND REGENT LORD LOR’THEMAR THERON REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY AS THEY JOIN HEARTS, HANDS, AND SOULS AT THE LUNASTRE ESTATE. FORMAL ATTIRE REQUESTED.
Wrathion scoffed. The pleasure of your company. Ha! This wedding was a monumental event in Azeroth’s history—the joining of two powerful leaders—and yet he knew he had been invited only as a courtesy. No one in Azeroth really wanted a black dragon—especially him—at any sort of grand occasion. It was good political theater to trot out someone so instrumental in defeating the old god N’Zoth and saving the world, but neither the couple nor their high-profile guests would deem being in his company a pleasure.
Wrathion crumpled the scroll with unnecessary vigor and flung it into a corner. Weddings were notoriously sappy affairs, and this one was likely to be especially so. According to the reports of his Black Talon operatives, it was a true love match, one that had blazed to a flame during a poetry competition, of all things. There would be other giggling, happy pairs; families with their giddy children; old friends reuniting.
Positively stomach-churning.
